


Late Dawns

by desertchorus



Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: Gen, Spiritual, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-28
Packaged: 2019-01-06 10:23:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12209325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/desertchorus/pseuds/desertchorus
Summary: Ghoul goes to pray for his family.





	Late Dawns

The full moon above washes the crumbling walls in a cool, silvery light. What may have once been brick is wrapped in hymns upon prayers; graffiti-bright words and symbols of fellow devotees.

Dust blows, whistling through the shrine.

On remains of a concrete foundation, offerings lay carefully arranged. Yellowed animal bones. Incense half-burned. Mismatched earrings. Colorful scraps of cloth. Bottles of paint and alcohol. All in Her honor.

He walks from the desert, features obscured in yellow and green.

There’s no mailbox here, no reason here for any other ‘joy to stop. A space not for the dead, but spoken only for the dying. Countless spray paint cans and cigarette ends line the sand. Rust-black drips clot the broken rock and piles of ash.

A dark feather drifts from the skies.

His boots meet the foundation with a reverence he reserves solely for Her. He removes the cloth from over his mouth, the mask from over his eyes, the sleeves from over his arms. Ink beneath his skin displayed like a shrine in its own right.

He drops to his knees. The winds around him pick up in response. 

Teeth of calcium and stone bite where he dares to touch the ground. Pain echoes in his legs and face and arms and every layer of scar tissue holding his body together. His smile doesn’t quite look the same, but it was given to him by The Witch. A blessing he could never ask for.

A lighter is produced. His hands find Her incense, his cigarette.

Inhale.

His closed eyes drift to his crew. His little family. They’re still asleep. All curled up together on the dirty mattress, with the Girl nestled between Kobra and Jet. Party’d be lying across legs and chests, like they’re everyone’s communal blanket. Warm and hazy and safe. Alive.

Exhale.

He rifles through pockets on his vest. Pushes fingers through cactus-greens of cloth and clinking glass. His hands find the iridescent beads and guide them to the makeshift altar.

“Phoenix Witch,” he invokes. He hopes She listens. He knows She listens.


End file.
